


Sunburn

by madziraphale



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Falling In Love, First Love, Fluff and Angst, Loneliness, Love at First Sight, Pining, Sad, just lots of feels, lots of em - Freeform, yikes that's a lot of tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6433480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madziraphale/pseuds/madziraphale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The young Templar hadn’t thought much about love at first sight in his life, but, after that day, it seemed to constantly be on his mind."</p><p>The story of Cullen and his first love, and how the things so bright and beautiful can also bring the most pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Drop Me In, It's Not My Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a thought: listen to the tragically beautiful song Sunburn by Ed Sheeran (the inspiration for the title) for the full effect of feelings.

The first time he saw her, Cullen knew his life wouldn’t ever be the same. He just didn’t know how, not yet anyway.

Cullen was one among a group of newly-consecrated Templars who were touring the Ferelden circle tower before being formally assigned there. He’d nearly tripped on his skirt when he spotted her. The apprentice sat curled in one of the large, plush chairs in the tower’s extensive library, light from an overhead window causing her to glow, especially in the midst of the dusty tomes surrounding her. Her tongue peaked slightly from the side of her lips as she concentrated on the book in her grasp.

Cullen’s eyes never strayed from the young apprentice when his group entered the room, and, if asked later, he wouldn’t remember anything the knight-captain had said. His sole focus was the young mage. Cullen knew he shouldn’t stare—he could practically hear his mother’s scolding as if she was standing right behind him—but any doubt he had vanished when the girl looked up, met his eyes, and _smiled._

_Maker’s breath._

The young Templar hadn’t thought much about love at first sight in his life, but, after that day, it seemed to constantly be on his mind.

* * *

Cullen began his post at the tower, and the first year came and went quickly.

He’d seen the girl from the library many times in passing, though—he’d never admit it—he sometimes went looking for her. Cullen felt like a dolt. Here he was, pining from afar, when he doubted this girl—Amell was her name; he had asked one of the older guards using an excuse he’d practiced for weeks—even noticed him as something besides a suit of armor.

Then, one day, something changed.

Cullen had been ordered to watch over the apprentices during their recreational period. The mages were brought to a large balcony overlooking the Lake Callenhad, where they could enjoy the fresh air and talk amongst themselves. To his good fortune, Amell was among the group.

The young knight watched earnestly as Amell made her way to the balcony’s railing, not far from where he stood. She seemed not to notice him. He couldn’t say he was surprised. The apprentice closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, a smile crawling onto her face. Cullen could feel his jaw slacken slightly and his cheeks flush. _Oh no_.

The sound of her name being called broke the mage and the Templar out of their stupors, and both pairs of eyes traveled to Amell’s friend—Jowan, if Cullen remembered—who was waving frantically in Amell’s direction. Her smile broadened even more, and Cullen’s heart sank slightly as the apprentice made her way over to the small group of mages assembled.

When she reached them, they began chatting too quietly for the young Templar to hear. He did his best not to look as though he was straining to catch part of their conversation. A sudden peal of laughter came from Amell, and she turned away from the group. The expression she wore made Cullen feel like he was flying.

Amell’s smile was bigger than the Templar had ever seen it. As he took his time to admire her fully, he noticed that a beautiful golden butterfly was perched on her outstretched finger. She looked down at it with awe in her eyes, but her expression quickly morphed to a small smirk.

Cullen would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching her so intently, but the apprentice seemed to whisper something into the butterfly’s wings. As if by magic—Cullen mentally kicked himself for the thought because _of course_ it was magic—the insect’s wings turned a brilliant shade of blue and it lifted from Amell’s finger and began to fly away.

The action, thought amusing, confused the young Templar. Why had she changed the color of its wings? Had she not thought the golden color beautiful? Self-consciously, Cullen raised a gloved hand to his own golden locks.

He brought his focus back to Amell and his cheeks immediately darkened. She was looking _right at him._ No, not just looking, she was _gazing_. Cullen felt himself begin to sweat. Before he could make a move to appear more official and less nervous, a chorus of chuckles came from behind Amell. The apprentice herself broke into a smile as well.

Thoroughly confused, Cullen followed their collective gazes to the hand he had rested on the hilt of his sword. His eyes widened at what he found. There, perched on top of his armored glove, was the butterfly, now back to its original golden hue. Gently, so as not to disturb the insect, Cullen lifted his hand closer to his face. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the butterfly’s wings were also streaked, very lightly, with crimson. The knight gave a dopey half-smile. Red had always been his favorite color.

He broke his gaze away from the little bug just in time to catch Amell’s gaze once again. Her smile this time was soft and warm, and—he prayed that he wasn’t just seeing things—Cullen noticed a faint blush on her cheeks as well. His own smile faltered slightly in shock. He could’ve thrown himself from the balcony at that moment. Amell seemed to think she’d done something, because her own smile fell as well, and she turned back to face her chittering friends once more.

Cullen sighed and slumped his shoulders, feeling utterly embarrassed. The butterfly flew away, seemingly oblivious of his misery.

* * *

 

More months passed, each now filled with congenial greetings and acknowledgments from Amell. Cullen began to daydream about her—something that was both a blessing and a curse.

Each morning, she would smile at him over breakfast from across the refectory. He would smile back—softly so as not to arouse suspicion among his brothers.

She would greet him in passing as she moved from lesson to lesson.

“Good morning, Cullen,” she would say, the pink on her cheeks lessening with each passing day.

“Apprentice,” he would nod at her when she was with others. “Good morning, Amell,” he would say when she was alone.

She would smile at him over lunch and over dinner.

“Pleasant dreams, Cullen,” she would say as she passed him on her way to the apprentices’ quarters for the evening.

“Apprentice,” he would nod at her when she was with others. “Sweet dreams, Amell,” he would say when she was alone.

One late evening, the two of them ended up in the mostly-empty library at the same time. Cullen was lost in a daydream of the two of them together, her hand in his hair, his armor discarded, his arm around her waist…

“Cullen?” her sweet voice cut through his dream like a sword, jarring the young Templar back into reality.

“Y-yes, apprentice?” he stammered back in as formal a tone as he could muster. Amell smiled at him and rolled her eyes.

“Cullen, we’re practically alone,” she responded teasingly, “no need to be so formal.” Cullen nearly choked.

“Anyway,” the apprentice continued, “I was hoping we could talk. I, well, I don’t know much about the Templars. Not really, anyway. And I was hoping you could teach me and maybe…tell me a little bit about you?”

Cullen swore his eyes were as big as dinner plates and his face redder than the fabric of his skirts. He swallowed thickly.

“Are you sure that’s a-a good idea? What if someone were to see us? I’m supposed to be _watching_ —wait not _watching_ that sounds…well, not good— _supervising_ you, not making small talk. I—“

“Hush, you silly man,” Amell raised a finger and placed it on Cullen’s lips. He almost fainted. “No one is going to come down here at this hour. And I’m mostly sure that Senior Enchanter Morten won’t be waking up any time soon.” Both of them glanced in the direction of the mage in question, who was out cold on top of some dusty tomes in the opposite corner of the room.

“Alright,” Cullen sighed in an attempt to sound proper, when inside he was absolutely giddy. Amell clapped her hands excitedly and lead him over to a table and set of chairs. He waited for her to sit before he did, and they stared somewhat awkwardly at each other across the table for a bit. Cullen cleared his throat.

“So…what do you wish to know?”

The apprentice and the Templar stayed awake talking for the rest of Cullen’s shift, which lasted well into the early hours of the morning. When his replacement guard came and Cullen was forced to wish Amell good night, he returned to his quarters and got into bed, but he didn’t get a wink of sleep. She occupied every ounce of his consciousness, and he couldn’t even be mad at her. Not ever.

* * *

 

The next few months brought more interactions, more conversations—when they could find the time—and, most importantly, a dance.

Every Winter’s End, the Circle held a dance for all of its mages, and, of course, the Order would be present, though the First Enchanter would insist they come as guests rather than guards.

Cullen had been counting down the days since the event was announced, despite his experience from the previous year’s event. The first dance he’d attended at the Tower had been nothing short of awful. He’d spent the whole night admiring Amell from a distance, pining away like a lovesick fool as he watched her dance with her friends. He shook away the memories. This year would be different.

The knight had spent most of the previous evening polishing his armor down to the belt buckle, and he tried his best to tame his curly mane. He had just patted down the last pesky lock when the call from his captain signaled that it was time to go. Cullen tried his best to get rid of his nervous jitters, but he could scarcely hide the smile from his face.

The main hall was decorated elaborately—no doubt various enchantments were involved. Sparkling streamers and floating candles hung suspended in air, making the room glow bright and beautiful. Cullen admired it only for a moment, however. The sound of Amell’s laugh carried across the expansive space and hit Cullen’s ears, diverting all of his attention to her.

His knees went weak, and his nerves fired up again. He never thought he’d see a more beautiful sight in all his life. Amell wore her dress robes, much as she had the previous year, and she looked stunning as ever. What changed everything, in Cullen’s opinion, was that her alluring gaze was directed at him. She smiled at him and mouthed a hello. He did the same.

For the beginning half of the night, the mages and Templars were free to interact and chat with one another. Mostly they kept to their own, though a few groups of them intermingled here and there. Cullen, not wanting to give away his feelings to the entirety of the Circle—not yet anyway—stayed near his company, making small talk as he connected eyes with Amell every now and then.

After what seemed like an age, the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter gave a formal greeting and encouraged everyone to enjoy themselves that night—though Gregor emphasized that the Templars remember their place. With that out of the way, the band tucked in the corner began to play.

A dancefloor was cleared for those in attendance, and many of the mages, Templars, and their significant others took the floor. Cullen looked to where he had last seen Amell, but she seemed to have been displaced in the shuffle. Disheartened, he was about to make a move to search for her, when he felt a sudden tug on his sleeve.

Amell stood before him, looking even more like a vision up close, and smiled up at him.

“Good evening, Cullen,” she said.

“Good evening, Amell,” Cullen said, even though they weren’t alone. “You look…well, um…absolutely radiant.” The apprentice blushed, only adding to his previous comment. His cheeks were just as bright.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she responded with a smile, “all bright and shiny. But, I didn’t come over here for small talk.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, “Ser Rutherford, would you care to dance?”

The Templar was stunned temporarily. Sure, he expected to interact with Amell while they were here, but…to _dance_ with her? In front of _everyone_?  Maker above, he thought he would only ever do this in his dreams.

“It would be my honor, Lady Amell,” he bowed low—just like his sister had taught him. Gently as he could, Cullen grasped Amell’s hand and guided her out to the dancefloor, just as the next song began.

The two danced for the remainder of the evening, laughing and talking as they glided across the floor. If Cullen had felt like he was flying all those months ago, he was practically over the moon now. No one had ever made him feel this way. He hoped to everything that this feeling would never end, that he could stay there with Amell in his arms for all of eternity. If he never received anything else in his life, this would be enough.

* * *

“You…I…y-yes, knight-commander. As you say.”

Cullen felt his heart shatter. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Surely, this was a joke? Could the Maker really be so cruel?

“You are to report to the harrowing chamber immediately, Rutherford. With me.” Gregor gestured over his shoulder as he exited the room, giving Cullen no choice but to trudge dutifully behind him. The young knight prayed that his utter despair wasn’t noticeable. He had known for a few weeks now that he would be present for an apprentices harrowing and that he would be responsible for striking the mage down if they became an abomination. What he had never expected was that Amell would be the mage in question.

Cullen knew his duty. He remembered clear as day the oath he swore to the Templars not so long ago. For the first time in his years of service, he felt genuine hatred toward his position. He vacillated between fuming rage and crushing sorrow all the way to the harrowing chamber. Following the Knight-Commander’s orders, he took his place next to two of his fellow knights, both of whom were eager to witness their first harrowing and possibly save Thedas from the treat of an abomination.

The Templars waited for only a few moments before Amell was lead in, looking more petrified than Cullen had ever seen her. The hallowed-out expression looked entirely out of place on her usually bright face. Another knot of dread attached itself to the enormous one that had already settled in the pit of Cullen’s stomach.

Amell’s gaze never left her feet as the first enchanter spoke to her, likely letting her know what was truly at stake. The young knight’s heart clenched and nearly shattered when the apprentice’s gaze suddenly met his. Fear, despair, and betrayal all shone in Amell’s eyes, and Cullen felt more like using his blade on himself before he’d ever use it on her. Cullen tried to convey any one of the emotions he had been feeling through his own gaze, but Amell broke their mutual gaze before he could manage.

Slowly, the young apprentice made her way over to the bowl of lyrium in the center of the harrowing chamber. The whole room seemed to hold its breath…or maybe that was just Cullen. The last thing he registered before his mind flooded with nothing but fear and worry was Amell meeting his eyes one last time before her mind traveled into the depths of the fade.


	2. If You Cut Deep Then I Might Learn

When the First Enchanter was able to prove that Amell had passed her harrowing, Cullen felt significantly lighter, though his worry lingered as he watched Amell’s limp and exhausted body be carried away by one of the Templars. The knight-commander had instructed Cullen and the rest of the remaining Templars to return to their posts for the rest of the day, meaning that Cullen would be stuck in the hallway with no way of getting news about Amell’s condition without looking suspicious.

He spent the entirety of his various shifts in his own brand of despair, his head brewing and spouting one awful thought after another. The pain in his heart was unlike anything he had felt before. What if she was too weakened by her harrowing and death came to her anyway? What if Amell’s subconscious returned to the Fade and stayed trapped there forever?

What if she had become an abomination and he had been forced to slaughter her?

That singular thought kept Cullen up for the rest of the night. He could not ignore all of the potential risks of loving a mage. They could never truly be together, no matter how much he desired it. She could turn to blood magic, she could be corrupted by demons in her dreams, she could…Cullen didn’t even want to think about it. He loved her, more deeply then he would care to admit, but in his heart he knew, plain and simple, that theirs was not a love that could ever be. He hadn’t known he was crying until he felt the side of his pillow grow damp beneath his cheek.

The next morning, the young Templar only poked at his porridge, waiting for one of his fellows to make a comment about the dark circles beneath his eyes. None came, and he was thankful for it. He only moved when the call came for the Templars to man their posts. Once again, Cullen numbly took his spot in the hallway, acknowledging no one. Not until he heard it.

Cullen’s knees nearly gave out when he heard the beautifully familiar sound of his name on Amell’s lips. He thought at first that she was another daydream come to plague him in his boredom, but the feeling of her hand on his arm drove that thought from his mind.

“Cullen? Is everything alright?” Amell inquired, looking at him with concern. The Templar’s heart caved in. He had planned on telling her upfront that whatever was going on between them had to end, but he had expected at least another week to plan out his words. Seeing her now, her eyes sparkling, her touch gentle and caring…his sleep-deprived brain couldn’t handle it.

“I was thinking,” she continued after he finally nodded an affirmative to her previous question, “that we could go somewhere…private to talk? After yesterday, well…” she bit her lip and studied her shoes for a moment, “I think it might be time.” When the mage’s eyes met his once more, Cullen felt his heart tear. He didn’t know if he had the strength to resist the pull of his emotions. He’d wanted this for so long, to hold her, to be with her, to _love_ her, and she was here offering herself and her heart plain as day.

“I…Amell, I…I have to go. I can’t…” before he could make the situation any worse, Cullen tore his arm away from Amell’s grasp and bolted down the hallway towards the stairs. His blood rushed so quickly past his ears that he barely caught the mage’s call of his name behind him. Somehow, his resolved remained, and he kept his pace all the way to his quarters.

Cullen slammed the door behind him, leaning against it and sliding to the floor in a heap of sobs. He thanked Andraste that his roommates were all on their patrols. _Foolish, foolish, foolish!_ He cursed himself between heaving breaths. How could he return to her after this? How could he explain himself? _How could he make his heart stop hurting? Please, Maker, make it stop…_

The young Templar wept longer than he ever had before, draining himself to the point of exhaustion. When his roommates returned hours later and found their door blockaded from the inside, they never expected the barrier to be their brother in arms, dead asleep in his armor on the cold, stone floor.

* * *

 

Cullen awoke with a gasp, clutching at his chest, which, to his surprise, was clad now in only his cotton tunic. He sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim light of his quarters. His head throbbed slightly and he pinched the bridge of his nose. The growl of his stomach alerted the knight that he’d missed at least one or two meals—not to mention the rest of his shifts for the day—so he stood with a groan, stretching his tense muscles, and hazily donned his armor.

The young Templar’s surprise nap left his head in a fog, and he drifted from his quarters like a spirit as he made his way to the dining hall. He didn’t notice the terrified chattering around him until he reached the second floor, where the sounds were too loud for him to ignore. Cullen furrowed his brow, walking towards the first authority figure he could find—a senior enchanter, a woman he remembered the others calling Wynne—who was holding some of the youngest Circle residents close to her.

“Excuse me, Miss…ah, Senior Enchanter?” Cullen rasped out, his hand self-consciously moving to his throat at the sound of his unused voice. Wynne looked up at the young Templar in surprise at first, but her gaze softened when she noticed his puffy, glazed eyes.

“What has everyone in such a fuss?” Cullen continued after clearing his throat. Wynne sighed, a sound that held deeper notes of sorrow than Cullen had ever thought possible.

“One of the apprentices…” she began, hanging her head for a moment to compose herself, “tried to take his own phylactery from the vault and destroy it. He…” the senior enchanter paused again, looking down at the children in her arms. She sighed again and crouched to their level, instructing them quietly to seek out Rumlo, another senior enchanter, who would take them back to their rooms. Reluctantly, they complied, leaving Wynne and the Templar alone.

“He fell in love with one of the lay sisters, and they planned to run off together. Jowan—the apprentice—hoped to destroy his phylactery so he and his love could make a clean escape. He enlisted the help of his friend, another mage, to gain access to the vault. They succeeded, but were caught at the vault’s exit by Irving and Gregor. Jowan…well, it turned out that all this time, he had been teaching himself blood magic.” Wynne paused for a moment, placing a gentle hand on Cullen’s upper arm, much like Amell had done. The knight had turned a ghostly shade of pale as soon as the words “blood magic” left the senior enchanter’s lips. She continued after receiving a nod from Cullen.

“He summoned demons to cover his escape, leaving his the young sister and his friend to face the wrath of what Templars remained,” Cullen’s eyes shot to Wynne’s at the mention of the Templars, and she could read the question in his gaze, “five, my dear. I’m very sorry.” The young Templar’s shoulders slumped drastically, but Wynne pressed on.

“The Chantry girl—Lily was her name—was sent away to Maker knows where. His friend…well. She was Irving’s star pupil. She didn’t know Jowan was a blood mage, and only wanted to help her friend achieve his happiness. So, the First Enchanter took mercy on her. He sent her away with that visiting Grey Warden…Duncan, I believe was his name. They left this morning.” Cullen’s mind hadn’t picked up on it earlier in her tale, but now the pieces he so desperately wish did not fit were beginning to come together. Wynne let loose yet another sigh.

“As much as I wish the events of yesterday had not come to pass, I always knew our young Amell was destined for great things.” The senior enchanter’s final words might as well have been a dagger to Cullen’s heart. _Amell._ She…she was _gone_ , and Cullen hadn’t been able to apologize, to tell her he loved her, to simply say good-bye. Though his mind was reeling, another word had caught his attention.

“Yesterday? But what…what day is today?” Wynne’s confused expression returned at Cullen’s question, but she answered him regardless.

“It’s Thursday evening, my dear. Why do you—“ the senior enchanter was cut off as Cullen suddenly pulled away from her, moving quickly down the hallway in search of any Templars, hoping they could set things right in his mind. Maker’s breath! He’d slept through most of Tuesday and the entirety of Wednesday. And, it seemed, he’d missed most of Thursday, too.

He looked high and low for any Templar of significant rank, sighing audibly when he heard the familiar angry roar of the Knight-Commander coming from a room on his right. The door was left ajar, so the young Templar cautiously entered, though he immediately wished he hadn’t.

Gregor stood in the center of the room, flanked by two of his officers, having a heated argument with Irving. The tables scattered throughout the room had been cleared of any other contents and were being used as benches by wounded Templars. Mages weaved through the tables, using their healing talents wherever they could. Cullen’s gut clenched at the sight of five tables in the corner of the room, each topped with a sheet-covered corpse. The blonde knight felt as though he were in some kind of horrid nightmare, though not even his foot kicking a stray bucket could break him from his dreamlike state.

The clamor, of course, got the attention of the entire room, and Gregor’s fiery glare turned to engulf whichever simpleton had caused the sound. However, when his eyes landed on Cullen—with his despondent eyes and pallid complexion—the Knight-Commander’s gaze lost much of its fuel.

“Rutherford,” Gregor called, his no-nonsense tone causing all others present to return to their previous activities, “a moment, if you please.” Cullen took a moment to react, but he strode over to his commander with as much professionalism as he could. Gregor gestured to an unoccupied area of the room, coming to a stop once he and Cullen were shielded by a bookshelf.

“I’m glad to see you up and about, Rutherford,” the Knight-Commander said, his small smile not meeting his eyes, “your roommates…” Gregor shut his eyes tightly for a moment and turned his head, “they were brave men, Cullen. Their sacrifice will be honored within the best of our ability.” The older man paused for a moment, feeling his gut twist when the last little bit of light left the young knight’s eyes.

“We have troops coming in from Denerim within the coming months, but, if what Duncan said about the Blight is true, we shouldn’t expect them soon, if at all,” Gregor continued, “So, in that time, I’m promoting you to Knight-Captain. Now, this isn’t some sort of pity hand-out, Rutherford. You’ve earned this rank. I just wish it wouldn’t have to be enacted in such tumultuous times.” The Knight-Commander did his best to make eye-contact, but Cullen’s gaze seemed trained on something nonexistent.

“If you need more rest, I understand—“

“I’m fine, Knight-Commander,” the now-Knight-Captain’s voice startled Gregor in its resoluteness, “What are your orders, Ser? I will be eager to help wherever I am needed.” The older man was hesitant, but he gave Cullen his assignments regardless, trying his best not to dwell on the lack of emotion in the younger man’s eyes.

 


	3. You Scarred and Left Me Like a Sunburn

The coming months passed in a blur for Cullen. He might as well have been a toy soldier, moving through his duties with precision, sternness, and authority. He was a suit of armor and nothing more, the shell of a man with his heart and soul torn to shreds. He sought what little comfort—if he could call it that—in Andraste. His letters home became less and less frequent as he drowned himself in extra patrols, late night watch duties, and countless hours of prayer and training.

His focus had been so singular that he hadn’t seen the signs, heard the whispers over passed rolls at dinner. The mages had something planned. “Freedom,” they’d preached “a way out of this hellish prison.” The price was simple and yet horribly steep: blood magic.

Within a day, the entire Circle was thrown into chaos. Cullen and his patrol were captured by blood mages, and any Templars and mages that had refused Uldred’s coercion were either captured or killed.

The desire demon prayed on Cullen and his platoon for…Maker knows how long. One by one, Cullen watched his brothers fall, heard their screams of agony as they went, and watched their blood spill into the cracks in the stone. But, the young Knight-Captain had kept his own emotions at bay for so long that he was able to resist many of the demon’s temptations. As days passed, however, the beast had begun to find the cracks in his resolve.

The first time he saw her, he wanted with all of his heart to believe it could be true.

“Cullen,” she said, her voice so soft and full of love, “come now, my darling, we can’t simply waste such a beautiful day in bed!” She had _been there,_ she _must_ have been. He had felt her smooth skin beneath his palm, the soft touch of her lips to his cheek. That first time, he had almost let himself be fooled. The scream of anguish from the harrowing chamber above broke him from his trance, though he almost wished it hadn’t. He was in so much pain, and she was finally _his_ and, Maker above, he had always and _would_ always be hers, and…

No.

It hadn’t been real, and he had to break his own heart again and remind himself that it would never _be_ real. He’d heard the rumors through the halls. The Wardens had betrayed the king, and it cost them their own lives as well as those of Ferelden’s army and, most importantly, its king. Amell, like the rest of her fellow Wardens, was likely torn to shreds by darkspawn, what pieces of her remained left to rot in the Wilds. The smallest speck of hope that remained in his heart, however, refused to die.

Another long passage of time. For all Cullen knew, it could have been an entire age. He was alone save the demon, who sent him new temptations with each passing minute, it seemed. Some were of Amell, but others were of his family, his home back in Honneleath, his favorite spot on the dock by the pond, where he and Mia would skip rocks and have meaningful talks. He never dreamt that his last vision of Amell would turn out to be true.

He had thought this particular temptation odd from the start. Amell had been there, of course, but rather than clothed in simple dress—or nothing at all, as some of the demon’s wiles depicted—she wore a suit of arms and was painted with the blood of the vanquished. Rather than holding a child or standing among his family, Amell was flanked by the senior enchanter Wynne, a young man—likely another Warden—and…a qunari? The oddness of it alone was enough to make Cullen question, but not enough to break him. He wouldn’t fall so easily.

He resisted as best he could, but the sound of her voice, the true look of concern on her face…he didn’t want to fight anymore. He was so tired, and the pain… Cullen’s thoughts paused for just a moment. The pain of his mind being torn between fantasy and reality had vanished. He felt more prominently the wounds from his battle with the maleficar than from the battle with his mind. So that meant…he was free! Oh, but at what cost? His brothers were dead and gone, and those _filthy_ mages…how could they?

A hungry rage took charge of Cullen’s pain and fear. Amell was going to face Uldred, but in that moment, she could have been any random Warden. All he cared was that she let all of those abominations _die._ They had taken the lives of so many, and with the power blood magic granted them, how could any of the remaining mages refused? They couldn’t be saved, none of them. He looked to Amell, hellfire in his gaze, and told her just that.

His tirade lost steam when he met the Warden’s eyes, watching the spark love, pure and hopeful, snuff out at his words.

“If I can save them, Cullen, I will. Make no mistake of that. I just defeated a demon in the Fade. What can Uldred throw at me that I haven’t already seen?” The young man behind Amell snorted and received raised eyebrows from Wynne and the qunari. Though she did not turn to face the other Warden, Cullen watched Amell’s cheeks darken, and a very small smile make its way to her lips.

“Stand back, my dear,” Wynne said, “we’re going to break down the barrier. Once you’re free, go down to first floor and alert Gregor that we are going to face Uldred, and that he will not need the Right of Annulment. Understood?” The Knight-Commander had been busy glancing discreetly between Amell and the other Warden to properly hear the senior enchanter’s question, but he acquiesced regardless.

The sudden rush of freshness to his face hit Cullen hard, and he felt his knees gelatinize just a bit. He couldn’t believe it. He was _alive_! He was _free_! Before he began his trek to the bottom floor of the Tower, he froze, all of the emotions of the past minutes finally catching up with him. Amell was here! Alive! His heart made to soar but deflated instantly as he turned to face her, his one and only love, and noticed the staff strapped to her back.

The thoughts from the day of her harrowing returned to him full-force. They could not be together, he had to remind himself of that. Recovering the famous emotionless resolve—at least outwardly—that had become his armor through all the passing horrors of these months, Knight-Captain Rutherford turned on his heel and went to seek his commander.

* * *

 

Cullen’s life seemed cursed to be filled with unbearable waiting.

He reached Gregor and the remaining Templars as quickly as he could, and was received with a warm, albeit surprised, welcome. He spoke Wynne’s instructions word-for-word to the Knight-Commander, who merely nodded in response as he sent Cullen to one of the healers. It took the Knight-Captain a moment to realize that this healer would, in fact, be a mage, but when the news struck him, Cullen blatantly refused any treatment, claiming that the only damage could be repaired by a few days’ rest.

Waiting for Amell to return—or, possibly, for the blood mages to descend the stairs and destroy them all—seemed to last longer than the wait before she and her party arrived. Left behind to act as another line of defense along with the remaining Templars was the rest of the Warden’s party: a chantry sister, an Antivan elf, a drunken dwarf, an apostate witch, and, of all things, a mabari. Cullen had to pinch himself a few times to make sure he really wasn’t dreaming.

At long last, the sound of footsteps came from the doors leading to the Tower interior. The sound of Amell’s voice got the Templar’s attention, and they opened the doors to her and her companions. The qunari, Cullen noticed, carried the First Enchanter in his arms. Gregor’s relief was almost palpable when he caught sight of Irving.

“So the evil is defeated, then?” the Knight-Commander asked, eyeing Amell as she helped the First Enchanter from the qunari’s—Cullen heard the elf refer to him as Sten—arms. Irving wheezed out a laugh.

“It seems my old apprentice wasn’t quite ready to leave us after all,” the mage said, smiling at Amell. She smiled back at her old teacher with a soft fondness.

The conversation between Amell, Irving, and Gregor devolved quickly into business, and the now Grey Warden brought up the ancient treaties, calling for the cooperation of the Circle’s mages to battle the Blight. Irving and Gregor both agreed to honor the contract. As an added bonus, Wynne offered her services to Amell as a member of her party. The young mage readily agreed, thankful to have any help she could get.

Amell and her companions, now that they had fulfilled their mission, made to pack up and set out on the road again. Cullen squared his shoulders, knowing that he had to say _something_ before she was out of his life again—likely, this time, forever. He and his hollow heart would never forgive him if he sat idle. He took one step, then another. It felt as though he were moving through molasses. What would he say? Would he confess his love, even though fate clearly wished them to be apart? We he hope for the chance anyway? He was only on his sixth step when fate destroyed his hopes once more.

The other Warden—Amell had referred to him as Alistair—approached Amell from behind, one arm discreetly sliding around her waist. Cullen’s jaw clenched. Alistair came to stand in front of the mage, smiling softly at her as they spoke in hushed tones. He lifted his free hand to rub a smear of blood from the mage’s cheek, and she leaned into his touch. The two Wardens gazed lovingly at each other, and each second he watched them, Cullen’s soul grew colder and colder. Somewhere deep within him, that last spark of hope went out.

A call from the witch and a bark from the mabari signaled that it was time for the Wardens and their party to depart. The two lovers broke their embrace, and, while Alistair headed for the door, Amell hung back, walking towards the First Enchanter and hugging him tight. The old man smiled and chuckled, hugging his old apprentice back just as fiercely. Amell gave a nod to the Knight-Commander, who returned it with a small smile. Lastly, and rather unexpectedly, the Warden turned her eyes to Cullen. For a moment, they simple stared at one another, gazes overflowing with what might have been.

Amell gave him a crooked smile.

“Good-bye, Cullen,” she said.

“Good-bye, Amell,” he said, even though they weren’t alone. In that moment, they might as well have been the only two people in Thedas.

Another call from the witch, accompanied by one from Alistair, broke the spell around them. Cullen gave her—the mage, the Warden, the woman that would never be his—a curt nod. She returned it and turned to her companions, walking away from the Circle—walking away from Cullen—for the final time.  

**Author's Note:**

> This was never meant to be so long, but pain waits for no one. I hope y'all enjoyed reading this as much as I suffered (lovingly) to write it. Comments would quite literally give me the strength to defeat an archdemon with nothing but a pair of brass knuckles and a ham sandwich. 
> 
> Special thanks to the squad born from CullenAmell Hell, without whom none of this pain would have been possible.


End file.
